First Fruits (21 page)

But there's only one person really, only
one man who has something that needs to be heard. But before I can point to
him, the speakers come to life again, not just with a groan this time, but with
actual words. Lydia yelps and grabs my arm. Then she recognises the voice,
magnified a hundred times, and her hand goes limp.

Well, it's
his
voice, isn't it?
Didn't I say folk come from miles around? In churches and chapels all through
the land there are empty pews and empty collection bags. He's stolen them away,
all these people with their fifty pence pieces. Although, of course,
stolen
is
the wrong word. No-one forced them to come. They simply prefer to be here, the
fishermen and their wives, listening to the things they want to hear. That God
is definitely with them, in wind and high weather, in squalls and in shifting
cargoes of ice and fish, in the rusty hulks they call their boats. A word in
their ear before they motor away from shore and safe harbour. Something to keep
them going - and something else besides for the wives who get left behind.

That's what the other churches aren't
giving them. The personal touch. That's why they come to Dad. He knows what
they like. He tells them God is everywhere, and they don't seem to notice what
he leaves out, the most important bit of all. That God may be with them, but
he's not necessarily going to do anything about it. Only if they are Chosen.

Although really, it's something they
should understand better than most. What do
they
do with all the fish
that the fish monger won't touch?

Anyway, now Lydia is one of them. Look
at her. She can't even see him, not with so many folk standing in the way. But
she can
hear
him. The silence was just a pause, an invitation to
consider. We've come in half way through his
The Love of God is a Flaming
Spear
sermon. That always gets them. The way it's getting Lydia now. She'll
never listen to anything as closely as she is listening at this moment.

'....For my friends, how can a man - a
man
- describe the love of God? The length, the breadth, the depth of it. The
sweetness and the pain of it. How can a
man
put into words a thing that
is beyond the power of speech?'

Only a special man. And long last,
Lydia, spectacles flashing, leaning and listening with her entire body, is
learning just how special he is.

'....For the love of God is a hot
desire, burning in your belly, melting the most inward, the most tender parts.
Feel the heat, my friends, feel the flames of God's desire as they consume you,
making you hollow and filling you with His warmth. Feel the fire as it licks
the flesh from your bones, sucks the marrow from the very centre. Feel it my
friends, my sisters, my brothers. The sweetness and the pain of it....'

And so on in the usual way. Rise and
fall, rise and fall, his voice reminds me of the engine of our car, cutting
back then driving forward, changing tempo, changing tone as the road requires.
The sermon itself is like a journey we've made so often that I could close my
eyes and know, just from the sound of the engine exactly where we are...

But Lydia doesn't hear it that way. And
quite right too. She is beginning to feel the heat, what God wants her to feel.
After the confusion, and then the panic, there is this. Already his voice has
brought her out in a hot flush, sweat forming in a fine line below the rim of
her spectacles. She looks as if the flames of God are busy even now, licking
the soul right out of her. In fact, Lydia is beginning to look like every other
person here.

And it's him, his voice, making everyone
the same. My Dad, talking about fire, as usual.

Well, she'd better make the most of it.
He's about to reach the end.

'Oh my friends. The love of God is
indeed a hungry flame. It tempers, it consumes. It destroys the evil in your
soul leaving the pure metal to shine through, proclaiming a faith as bright as
gold. His love will make you suffer. His desire will make you burn. For the
love of God is a
flaming spear
, piercing the softest parts and melting
every thing....every mortal thing it touches...'

His voice breaks, tips over into a
whisper. Lydia looks as if she may be about to faint. People often do. An old
woman broke her hip last year she hit the ground so hard. Her relatives sent a
letter threatening to sue.
She
sent a letter with a cheque, saying that
the pain had cleansed her soul. She's probably here now, somewhere, ready for
another cleansing. Let's hope there's someone to catch her this time.

But Lydia, oh Lydia. You've fallen
straight away. Somehow I'd thought you might have stood a while to consider.
All that education, teaching you to think. You work out maths problems by thinking.
The same with Greek. You're a
thinker
. You're supposed to be clever.
It's the reason you do so well.

Well she's not thinking now. Lydia is
all feeling. And it's funny. In a way, I'm almost disappointed in her. Almost
sorry I let her come.

He really is close to the end, though.
We were so very late you see. Didn't I say I hadn't intended to do this? He
must have been speaking for an hour already. He does it all the time, when the
spirit moves him. He'll do it again at home this evening, in our own church.
And of course he knows the words so well.

'This, then, is the love of God. But in
the heart of his love lies the greatest miracle of all. A sweetness, a
suffering - so gentle, so douce that I...' he stops here. He always stops
'....that I cannot say another word.' A pause, then a final, a whispered cry
magnified a hundred times:

'Take me then, oh Lord.'

And that's it. Silence. This time a
proper one. The crowd stirs, but stays where it is, feet rooted to the spot.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if someone set off a fire alarm right at
this moment. Or made a pile of coats and lit a match. Would they run, or would
they stay? He's told them the flames would taste of honey. Would they still believe
him?

But now, after the silence, the usual
response. Or to put it another way, Pandemonium. By which I mean the outbreak
of cries and sobs, and the lalala of all those women up the front, especially
the younger ones, wailing out in tongues, smearing their lipstick not to
mention their mascara. Always the same. Never different. The part I hate.

Oh but don't tell him I said that.

I turn to Lydia. But she's not there.
Lydia has taken to her feet. Something must still be at work inside her brain,
after all, something still able to think, which has told her to seize the
moment while everybody else is incapable. It takes a good few seconds before I
discover where she is, but then I spot her, way ahead of me, wriggling like an
energetic worm to the front of the crowd.

I almost don't get there in time. Half a
minute later and she's nearly arrived at the stage. At the last possible moment
I catch her by the arm and hold her. Not that she notices at first, not
properly. After a momentary struggle she stops, is content just to stare, up at
the stage. And my Dad.

She can see it all now, everything the
crowd had hidden from her.

He's collapsed onto a chair, legs sprawling
in front of him as if he had lost every bit of strength he had. Sweat is
pouring off his face, and he is staring straight ahead of him. At what? The
fire exit sign perhaps. All that talk about burning.

As usual though, it's the sheer amount
of sweat that fascinates me, and the idea that even a fraction could be
absorbed by that tiny scrap of wispy lace.
She
stands over him the way
she always does, mopping his brow with the same useless piece of cotton. It's
pink today, her handkerchief. That's because she is wearing the pink suit, and
matching shoes. She looks like a rosy overweight angel, puff pastry hair, bosom
rising like leavened bread, a plump and sacred vision. Good enough to eat.

Lydia turns to me, her eyes suddenly
sharp behind her spectacles, more focused than you might have expected for
someone who had been on the verge of fainting five minutes before.

'Who's
she
?'

And there was me thinking she would only
have eyes for him. But so as not to make things too easy, I answer with, 'Who's
who
?'

Lydia points, finger shaking ever so
slightly. Up there, on the stage, she's bending even closer now, the outside
edges of her bouffant grazing up against his face.

'Oh,' I say as if it's the most natural
thing in the world. 'That's Mrs. Forbes White. Didn't you know?' But then of
course, how could she? All that interest in Dad, but Lydia has never thought to
ask, who exactly are the people in such need – and who it is that phones at
twenty-eight minutes past eight. Precisely.

Lydia stares at me and then at the
stage. Bites her lip. A moment ago, I'd thought I'd have to stop her from
calling attention to us both. Now there doesn't seem the danger. Already she's
beginning to shrink back. Apparently Lydia has an instinct for what is right
after all. She understands, even when she doesn't understand.

Still, at least we're safe.

Or are we? It's as I turn away that I
see it. A white blur to the left of me, a familiar face in the crowd. Or
thought I did, because when I look again it isn't there. But that may be
because at last people are beginning to come to their senses, to shift from
their chosen spots, understanding they'll get no more from him today. He
doesn't give encores.  Besides, the bag will be going round, and sometimes that
gets people moving too, towards the doors, even the ones who were foaming and
speaking in tongues two minutes ago.

But Lydia, who seems to be noticing more
today than she ever has, glances at me, catches me looking for something that's
probably not even there.

'What?' She says. 'What's the matter?'

The only answer is to shrug my
shoulders. There is absolutely no point in making a fuss. But then, simply to
avoid making a fuss by dint of saying nothing, I add; 'I thought I saw Moira
MacMurray for a moment, that's all.'

Lydia's eyebrows go shooting up. 'Moira?
Where?' Now she's looking all around her. 'Well I can't see her.' The stupid
girl actually sounds disappointed

'Oh well then,' I say. 'That proves it.'
Which even I will admit was hardly sensible. Because what does it prove? I know
what I saw. Or at least I thought that I did.

I
tried to make sure we were out in the first wave, to be standing somewhere so
as to see everyone else as they came out. But it was impossible. There were
three exits and a rush for each one, and with so many people, the result was a
standstill. It took us ten minutes to reach the nearest door. It really did
make you wonder what would happen if there had been fire.

OUT
on the pavement, however, Lydia suddenly seizes up. Delayed reaction. It gets
some folk like that, when it's all over, and they are out in the real world.
Accordingly, she starts shivering and shaking, blinking as if she hardly knows
where she is or how she came there.

'K...Kate.' she says. 'Kate.' Her teeth
are chattering so much her brace will end up with metal fatigue if she doesn't
watch out.

'What?' I say. '
What?
' There's a
funny tone in my voice that surprises even me. And I can't look at her. I don't
want
to look at her for some reason, not when she's like this. I'll say
it again.
I never thought she would be so easy
. Not Lydia. If I had
dreamt for one minute that she would be, I would never have brought her.

There'll be no going back after this,
not for her.

And here she goes, just the way you'd
expect now. 'Kate, he's just the most wonderful, wonderful...' Her face is
still all flushed and she has one hand pushed up under her coat, rubbing her
stomach as she speaks. She doesn't know what she's doing. It's freezing out in
this street. She should button up or she'll catch a cold to end all colds.

And even the bus driver notices, looks
twice at Lydia as I hand over the money for both of us. Looks three times. It's
the flush in her cheeks, and the way her hands are still moving up and down her
body as if looking for a resting place. I practically have to push her into a
seat.

But there, surprisingly, her eyes come
into focus again, making her turn to me just when I'm least expecting it, and
say:  'I'll say this though. I didn't much like the look of
her
, I
didn't like the look of her at all, that Mrs. Forbes White person.'

To tell the truth, I'm too busy looking
out of the window to take much notice or even be surprised at how a person can
be away with the fairies one minute and as sharp as a pin the next. Out there
on the street people are still walking away from the hall, trying to make
headway through the wind and the same dirty scraps of paper, some of which have
his name on them. Lots of people out there, walking home, but not one of them
is her. Moira MacMurray.

THERE’S
trouble at home, too, at Lydia's home that is.

We had to run up the garden path because
Lydia was too excited to walk, thus giving no warning that we were coming. And
there, in the sitting room, is her mother, an open book on her lap and Laura
curled up at her feet. As we burst through the door, Mrs. Morris's head shoots
up, with an expression that is more than just simple surprise. What is it?
Guilt? Definitely guilt, I would say. But something else besides, more
troublesome than plain old guilt.